Lingering
by intheinkpot
Summary: Hermione remembers she is not alone.


Hermione hates Ministry functions. Making small talk with strangers, all of whom act as though they are close friends while angling to get something from her, is the opposite of what she would call fun and relaxing.

"Well, that's your fault for going and getting yourself elected Minister, now isn't it?" Bellatrix likes to tease when Hermione complains about it.

The worst thing, though, is the barely disguised disdain and disgust for Bellatrix that these strangers seem to think they're hiding. The way it causes anger to simmer in her stomach, the strength it takes to bite her tongue and pretend not to see.

"Well, that's your fault for going and marrying me, now isn't it?" Bellatrix likes to tease when Hermione rants and rails against it.

She's sure she'll hear that one tonight, once they party is done, as she plasters a polite and friendly smile on her face and tries not to demand that the new Head of Magical Law Enforcement stop glancing at her wife, who lurks in a corner and minds her own business, if he wants to keep his job. That would be an unethical use of her power, she's sure, but furthermore she does not wish to have that discussion in front of Mrs Johnson, who appears to be a perfectly nice woman who does not seem to share her husband's paranoia.

Hermione tries not to let on that she notices the way his eyes dart away every few seconds nor that she is aware of whom he is watching. But when his eyes narrow slightly, she says politely, "Is something the matter, Johnson?"

Before he can respond, she turns to look over her shoulder. Narcissa and Draco have joined Bellatrix in her corner, chatting with her as they take a break from socializing. It seems, then, that it is not just Bellatrix that Johnson is keeping an eye on.

Thoroughly annoyed now, Hermione turns back to him and forces a smile that she is sure does not reach her eyes.

"Have you heard that St. Mungos has made great strides in researching how to heal wounds caused by dark magic? As you know, those kinds of injuries have traditionally been incredibly resistant to healing, but with the generous donations and consultations provided by my wife and her sister, they've made great progress. I'm sure your Aurors will be grateful."

Johnson, realizing he has been caught, awkwardly clears his throat. He begins to respond when someone cries out and glass shatters, something clanging loudly on the tiled floor -

Hermione spins around, heart pounding, hand flying to her wand -

"Minister Granger, are you quite alright?" asks a woman's voice.

Not far from them, a member of the wait staff picks up a serving tray as a woman, a bit tipsy by the looks of her, apologies profusely. The attendant vanishes the broken glass from the floor.

"Yes, I'm fine," Hermione says with a forced laugh. "Only startled."

"Your hands are shaking," Mrs Johnson says, brow furrowed with concern.

Hermione glances down, surprised, and sees her hands trembling. She swallows.

She's saved from having to come up with a believable excuse when Bellatrix catches her eye, approaching so that she is visible in Hermione's periphery. Bellatrix places a hand on her shoulder and says in a way that is not a question, "May I borrow my wife for a moment?"

And without waiting for an answer, she steers Hermione away by her shoulder.

"Narcissa will make your excuses," Bellatrix murmurs as she leads Hermione to the empty Atrium.

"I can't just leave, I'm the Minister," Hermione protests.

"That's exactly why you _can_ leave," Bellatrix says. "Especially when you are not feeling...well."

"I'm _fine,_" Hermione insists, as though her heart is not still pounding in her chest and her eyes are not darting around the room, trying to see in every shadow at once, while she is painfully aware of very little sound.

"Don't lie to me," Bellatrix scolds, but her voice lacks any bite. She relents. "Fine. We'll stay. But let's go to your office for a few minutes of peace and quiet first."

That Hermione can agree to, and she leads Bellatrix to her office. At this time of night, it is dark and chilly, and Hermione, so caught up in her own thoughts, does not think to warn Bellatrix. Bellatrix freezes when she steps inside, right on Hermione's heels. It's only for a moment, but Hermione softens, remembering that she does not have to pretend with Bellatrix. She strides over to her desk, lighting the candles and fireplace with a flick of her wand. Grabbing some bottles of Butterbeer from a cabinet behind her desk, she gives Bellatrix a moment to gather herself.

"You're right," she admits, handing Bellatrix a glass, "I'm not alright." She sighs. "I thought I was getting better."

"You are."

"It never really goes away does it?" Hermione asks softly.

Bellatrix pauses. "No," she admits in turn, staring at her glass. "It doesn't."

Hermione wishes she could say more, but Bellatrix has never liked discussing her trauma from Azkaban. When Bellatrix is ready to talk about it, she will. She always has.

Hermione understands her reluctance. The war ended decades ago, but still it lingers in ways that are painful - and difficult - to articulate.

Hermione sits down on the couch facing the fireplace. Without prompting, Bellatrix sits beside her.

"How are you feeling? Be honest with me," Bellatrix says gently.

"Better," Hermione says with a slight smile, and she leans against Bellatrix's side, resting her head on her shoulder. "Thank you."

Bellatrix rests her head against Hermione's, pressing a kiss to her hair. They sit in silence, enjoying the quiet and comfort.


End file.
